Well, now they want to show up. Now they call (after noon, of course) to say, Oops--can I come in now?
Two dozen people, simultaneously saying, Oops.
So, Billy the Irish ex-con is in my office and he isn't happy. He applied for a job and the people in human resources want to see the police report before conducting the second part of the interview. "Most of those charges were dropped, fer christsakes," he says. "I tell them they need to see the court record, but noooo -- they want the goddamn police report.
"I tell ya, they had me up on kidnappin' charges, kidnappin', fer christsakes. See, when I was struggling with girl at the counter, the video camera catches me rasslin' her to the ground, right? And the gun, well, the goddamn gun, fer christsakes, ends up aimed at her head, only it was an accident. I mean, look at me, fer christsakes. Do I look like I need a gun to rassle a girl to the ground, fer christsakes? Because of the gun at her head, they call it kidnappin', fer holyshitsakes."
Nov. 29, 1999
Had my list of last second reschedules. People who missed at least three appointments in the month and begged for one last chance.
None of them showed up.
Nov. 25-26, 1999
Thanksgiving. I'm thankful I don't have to go back to work for four days. Damn thankful, yes, yes.
Nov. 24, 1999
Well, damned if she didn't do it anyway. The pregnant woman from yesterday went into labor in the building today. Thank god it didn't happen in my office. She was applying for other benefits when her water broke.
Nov. 23, 1999
A woman came in with her daughter, and mid-way through the interview she started laughing. Not happily. More like the laugh of someone who has lost her mind.
Nov. 22, 1999
The night guards had a party over the weekend. Empty beer cans, cigarettes crushed out on tables, trash scattered.
Nov. 19, 1999
Looked at the growing pit of work and scowled. Then someboy emailed me the Elf Bowling game, which I enjoyed so much that I encluded it on this site. Made things a little better. Made a client laugh by saying, "We should work harder. Millions of people on welfare depend on us."
You make your own life. And you generally cause your own problems. But that doesn't mean you deserve them, and it certainly doesn't make it fair. Helen is in the office. She is on crutches. Severed toe from a nasty fall. Her baby has been taken from her home and a foster home is likely.
Security guards milled around my cubicle for most of the day. Not for me, thank god, although I have certainly had reason to call them in the past. No, this time it was the cubicle beside mine and one down the hall. Beside me, a woman was screaming, jumping up from her seat, threatening to lunge. She came in looking for a fight. You could hear it in her voice.
And then Rudy the Schizo walks in. This time he is wearing a long, black overcoat, a cashmire sweater, black slacks and combat boots. He carries a briefcase, which he swings freely as he walks through the front door, waving, greeting people, shaking hands while wearing his leather gloves.
Nov. 15, 1999
Not a bad day. Eight people scheduled, one showed up. One called to re-schedule. What to do with the rest?
Nov. 12, 1999
Not enough workers, too many clients. That's the fun part of welfare reform. We still have the same number of people receiving welfare, we just count it differently. Now, every time we discontinue somebody's case, it counts statistically as another person officially off of the welfare rolls. Funny thing is, they usually re-apply the next week. But we don't count that.
Nov. 11, 1999
No work today. It's Veteren's Day. I honored the memory of my late DAV grandfather by slugging down some whiskey while watching an Audie Murphey movie on a Japanease TV set.
Nov. 10, 1999
So, Rudy the Schizo is in the lunch room again. He is wearing a red muscle shirt, pressed trousers and sneakers. His hair, as usual, is standing straight in the air. He could quite literally pass for Don King's slightly younger brother.
Nov. 09, 1999
In the lunch room today, a regular who happens to be schizophrenic came up behind me wearing a red jump suit with a Star Trek tee-shirt over it and carefully polished patent leather dress shoes. I was reading the sports page at the time. He leaned over my shoulder, pointed to an article about the Kansas City Chiefs, and said, "They are going to win the Superbowl."
Now I know he is crazy.
His name is Rudy and he once told me that he fought in Vietnam when he was 13 years old. He also told me his sargent sent him home from the war when the enemy stole his baseball cap.
His father was Marc Anthony and his mother Cleopatra.
Must be tough being the black sheep of the family.
Not much else happened at work. I had 12 clients scheduled, only two showed up. Of course, the remaining 10 people will accuse me of trying to take their benefits away when the end of the month rolls around.
Another co-worker started Prozac, another receptionist embarked on a nervous breakdown, another higher-up devised another great plan for improved services, thus throwing us behind another 3 months.
Another day, another dollar. In food stamps.
The paramedics stepped off the elevator just as the baby's head started coming out.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just so happy. My baby girl is finally old enough to get her own food stamps."
WHAT THE HELL!?!
Had to cut one interview short. The woman was pregnant and her due date is one week from now. She looked so uncomfortable in the hard plastic chairs that the state provides. "You start having a baby, and I'm canceling your appointment," I told her.
But I sent her home anyway. She looked so miserable. I told her to call me and we could finish over the phone.
I'm getting a larger number of people just released from prison. I don't mind this. You get a guy who just got out of the pen and he's just soooo damn happy to be there. To be anywhere. I got a guy in his 50s today who just got out for shooting a man in the butt. His attorney had gotten the charges knocked down, he said.
"What to?" I asked.
"Assault under stress."
I leaned closer. "What the hell is 'assault under stress?'"
He shrugged. "Dunno. Shooting somebody when you are pissed, I guess."
Nov. 18, 1999
The kid was removed because she was harboring felons. The felons were her two older children.
And, yeah, you can say it is her own fault. The son, a persistent felon, was arrested for burglary. The other son had warrants out on him, so he was picked up, too. Right in the house. Her 6-year-old was removed because he was in an unsafe enviroment. And she could have avoided it by not letting her oldest sons stay there.
But I'm looking at this bleary-eyed woman, a woman who appears over 50 rather than 34, with the dark ringed eyes and the broken heart, and I'm thinking, How easy is it to give up on your kids? If you don't believe, who will?
Sitting in the chair in my office, her head slumps down, chin to chest. We were done with the interview and nobody else was scheduled, so I let her sleep.
She slept hard, snored. Cheeks stained with tears, crying in her sleep.
Nov. 17, 1999
"I am qualified to do your job," the woman told the worker. "I just don't want to do what you do."
Then more ranting, more craziness.
Kind of funny, really. Made me want to say, "I'm qualified to be a bum, but I don't want to do what you do."
Meanwhile, down the hall the child protection people were contending with an enraged father who was preparing to box a tiny 50-year-old woman. The man's 3-year-old daughter had stabbed him in the back two days earlier. Suddenly, we understood why.
Nov. 16, 1999
"I'm going to be rich," Rudy says to nobody in particular. "The federal reserve sent me a telegram that said they owe me a trillion dollars."
A guard shuffled toward me, away from Rudy.
"One of these days, he's going to kill us all," whispered one guard. "That's why I'm always nice to him."
Later, someone came around selling microwave popcorn for $15. Boyscout charity, she says. Damn boyscouts need to get a real job.
"Man, I hate jail." Billy sits across from the desk. Just got out after doing 6 months for beating a man half to death. Released on good behavior, which isn't a stretch of the imagination. He is friendly, affable. But something in the eyes...
"You every been in prison?"
I shake my head no.
"Yeah, right."
Behind me I can hear the supervisor talking to a client on the phone. He's trying to explain for the umpteenth time that we are running a month behind because of a shortage of workers. The client demands service.
"You want to know how to get your case approved faster," Jerry, the supervisor, asks. "Move out of this zip code."
Billy grins. "He ever been in prison?"
I shake my head no.
"Yeah, right."
He has a blond cornered in the room. Like an attractive woman trapped by a barfly, she is held captive to Rudy's one-sided conversation.
"I have developed a mind control drink," Rudy says. "Can I test it on you? You can have it as either tea or coffee."
This workday is absurd. People scheduled every 30 minutes, others walking in without appointments. By rule, everyone is entitled to be seen, appointments or not.
By rule, it is piss-poor management.
The cases pile up on the corner of the desk. No time to process information. No time to think. Each individual folder gets covered with yellow Post-It notes in the hopes that these scribbled bits of information can keep one case from blurring into the next.
But it's no use. One client leaves, two more wait outside. And, as they sit down, you ask yourself: "Is this the one who just got out of the pen, or is it the one with the kid dying with cancer?"
One after another. After another. And you can't remember who is who.
